


almost and eventually

by randomtuna13 (belindarimbi13)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotionally Repressed, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Kissing, M/M, Unconventional 5+1 tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belindarimbi13/pseuds/randomtuna13
Summary: The times Aziraphale wondered about Crowley and the other times that he didn't have to.





	almost and eventually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartoffangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartoffangirl/gifts).

> **disclaimer & notes:**
> 
>   * Good Omens is novel by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, adapted into TV series by BBC and Amazon Prime and directed by Douglas Mackinnon.
> 
>   * The author does not take any material profits from writing this story.
> 
>   * I'm writing this with Atsui in my mind, so inherently this is for her ♥

#####  **accidentally first.**

Aziraphale would stubbornly call it a mistake. For he was an angel and Crowley was a demon. They hadn't been thinking clear. Aziraphale would say that he was driven by adrenaline, and he was just so happy, to have Crowley saving <strike> him</strike>his books. Aziraphale couldn't bear the thought of losing precious books again, you see. It had happened once in Alexandria and it probably just a suitcase of books, not a whole library, but they were worth the same.

He was just so happy. And he got reckless when he let his guard down.

So, he was very excited to tell Crowley about these books the demon had miracled for him. Because, as much as the demon acts like he doesn't care, he actually cares a lot. He listens. He always had, always does, always will.

And it went on and on and on.

And suddenly, warm.

It distinctively tasted like ash. And fire. And a speck of wine.

It _ burned _ him.

Aziraphale pulled himself off. He looked at those uncovered snake eyes. He didn't know why he was wondering about Crowley's glasses. But he did. It just happened. Like the kiss.

Crowley leaned in. But Aziraphale pushed him back. Crowley leaned back. Aziraphale looked away.

_ This is just a mistake,_ Aziraphale rubbed his lips absent-mindedly—erasing the trace of burnt that might remain.

Crowley didn't argue as he sped up to Aziraphale's bookshop.

#####  **the second didn't exist.**

People love talking. People love having secrets. Sometimes, they aren't smart enough to not mix them up.

It was why Aziraphale ended up in Crowley's Bentley, delivering the holy water by himself. Aziraphale trusted the demon, but he <strike>couldn't</strike>didn't trust the human Crowley was working with.

The Bentley faintly smelled like coffee. He knew, Crowley loved it more than tea. Aziraphale found himself, guessing which coffee beans he smelled, what kind of the roasting process that the beans went through. Did Crowley take sugar? Did Crowley take milk? Aziraphale also couldn't smell any hint of sweetness, so Crowley probably didn't take any sugary treat to accompany his beverage. After all, he hardly enjoyed any when they had opportunity to dine together. Always giving away the dessert for "you angel, seem liking those sweets much" reason which was actually incorrect, because Aziraphale is the _only_ angel who enjoys such human experience.

"I'll take you anywhere." He heard Crowley's offer. And Aziraphale considered taking him for coffee. Reconciliation. This was Aziraphale agreeing to Crowley's stupid insurance plan. It was not dinner. It wouldn't even be a picnic. Just two <strike> friends</strike>acquaintances having coffee together.

"Where do you want to go?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale's gaze flicked on the demon's lips.

_ It would taste like coffee_, he thought. And he scolded himself for thinking such. It wouldn't be a mistake this time. There was no such thing as second mistake.

So, he shifted his gaze up and said, "You go too fast for me, Crowley." because Crowley's safety was more important than anything that was coffee-related. And Aziraphale couldn't afford second mistake.

#####  **but the first-almost did.**

The clock had been ticking. The boom was set to explode. It was inevitable. It had been planned. Or else it wouldn't be namely, The Great Plan. The end was nigh. The world was ending. Better enjoyed it while it lasted. The last time of chatting in St. James Park. The last time of feeding the ducks. The last time of dining in the Ritz. The last time of having Crowley.

The very last time.

Because if it was Apocalypse, demon and angel could not be on the same side. They were made to be opponents. Enemies. No matter how much Aziraphale enjoying his time with Crowley, they couldn't be together.

The truth was more painful than the mere thoughts about not being able to enjoy human restaurants any more, or having the bookshop, or listening to those classical vinyls he loved so much.

Not only, he would lose all of that. He would lose the demon, as well.

Not being able to see his face, or his glasses, his red hair, his snake tattoo, his yellowish eyes, his crooked nose, his—

"I'm going to sober up." Aziraphale declared.

—lips, that he was so sure would taste like the wine they had been drinking.

He had always known that being drunk would've messed with his head.

#####  **there was almost the second-almost.**

Brother Francis was very well-liked. The plants told him so. They would be so cheerful to see him. Aziraphale was particularly fond of the rose bushes. It was Mrs. Dowling's favourite. So was his. Full of metaphors. Roses were often mentioned in love songs, or love poetries. He would gladly recite both to entertain Mrs. Dowling and to teach Warlock about being beautiful and fragrant, while outside they may look thorny.

For some reasons, Warlock despised it.

The boy would counter him by saying about roses being two-faced, about them being beautiful but dangerous. He would tell Brother Francis that he would like to be rose, so he could hurt everyone who dared to pick him from the garden.

Brother Francis would say, _that was terrible thing to do_. And Warlock would shrug it off and said, _if Nanny said that, it must be true_.

It was Friday and Warlock went out with his mother, so Aziraphale asked to meet Crowley in the garden. Technically, there shouldn't be any apple, because it was in the middle of rose bushes section. But Crowley did bring one anyway for the sake of ironic joke.

They swapped stories, compared notes, and talked about their progress with the Anti-Christ-to-be. Everything seemed good and bad, which was to be expected. Warlock grew up normal, having influenced with both sides, heaven and hell.

At the end of their rendezvous, Nanny Asthoreth stood up, brushing her dress to avoid wrinkles, unaware of the slight, wet remnant on the corner of her lips.

"Wait, my dear. You got something on your face," Brother Francis said. He reached out his hand to touch the peach-coloured cheek, stopping it from moving. He failed to notice how red Nanny Astoreth's lipstick was. Like a freshly bloomed rose in the dewy morning: bright red, glistening with the apple juice.

It was as red as the rose. It was as red as the apple.

They would have thought the time stopped for them, but it was even hardly three seconds until Warlock coming and interrupting, asking question about Brother Francis' hand on the Nanny's face.

#####  **the third-almost was nearly not an almost.**

Aziraphale was very sober. He was intrigued, but he was not entirely thrilled with adrenaline.

There was no way he would have done it and called it mistake like the first time. There was no way he would have done it and disguised it as accident.

He was so close. Crowley's eyes were burning with yellowish fire behind those glasses. Yet, Aziraphale didn't see them dimmed. They were burning bright. It smelled like gun-powder here. Or maybe fresh paint, too. But Aziraphale mostly smelled... Crowley. It strangely resembled the smell of burning wood that reminded him of autumn.

The scent surrounded him and Aziraphale was drunk.

He would kiss him back if Crowley leaned in. He would allow the demon to take his breath away. He would love to taste the scent of fall on his mouth.

He really would.

But Crowley had learned his lesson.

And Aziraphale was not brave enough to take a leap.

What if that turned to be an accident (too)?

#####  **say goodbye, ** <strike> **it was not the fourth**</strike>**.**

The world was ending.

This could be their only last chance.

_ How long have we been friends? _

Forever.

_ Six thousands years! _

A blink of eye that lasts longer.

_Friends? _

But we have never been friends.

_ We're not friends. _

The term 'friend' is way too simple to describe us. Too dull. We are so much more than that. We are bigger, greater than that.

_ We are angel and demon. _

We are never destined to be together. Together, in the definition of against all the odds. We are impossible, and yet here we are.

_ I don't even like you. _

I don't even like you. I am not supposed to. Still, I want you. And I have you. How selfish I am to not only hurt you and but also betray myself?

Crowley was lost at words. His lips quivered, trembled, mumbled something inaudible. And then, he said,

_Happy Doomsday!_

I don't need to kiss him to know that his lips taste like goodbye.

#####  **the very first day ...**

"You are obsessed with me or something, angel?" Crowley joked as he grabbed Aziraphale one more time and let the angel kiss him good night, _again_.

Aziraphale mumbled, "Something."

"Well, then," Crowley smiled against Aziraphale's lips and pulled the angel over his lap. "I am something with you too."

They were kissing again and again.

And it felt like first time every single time.

Even after two days.

After a week.

After a month.

After a year.

Even possibly, decades.

They used to wonder how each other's lips taste like.

_Would it taste like tea? _

_Or coffee? _

_Or honey? _

_Or wine?_

_Would it taste like ice cream?_

_Or cake?_

_Or fresh bread?_

_Or maybe, it would simply taste like _ _ **you<strike></strike>**_****.

#####  **... of the rest of their life.**

They have craved each other for so long, that when they finally came to taste, it would never feel enough. Of course, it would eventually stop being new. It would eventually not feel like the first time any more. But when that time comes, they will be so used of tasting each other, that they will only feel full.

_When you came, you were like red__ wine and honey. / __And the taste of you burnt__ my mouth_ _with its sweetness. / Now__ you are like_ _morning bread, smooth__ and pleasant. /_ _I hardly taste you at all_ _for I know your savour,_ _but I am completely nourished._

— "Decade", by Amy Lowell

• **fin •**

**Author's Note:**

> > To Atsui: When I said I finally have time to write more, it means more gifts for you. Notice that "more" actually is not an exaggeration, <strike> but simply, a poorly executed attempt</strike>.
> 
> The poem "Decade" that inspired this story was taken from _ The 100 Best Love Poems of All Time_, edited by Leslie Pockell. I didn't remember how I got that book, but I am grateful anyway.
> 
> Please do leave me any feedback in the comment box. Kudos will brighten my day too!
> 
> **ETA: **I'm writing a companion piece for this story. It's a poetry, kindly check **[why I am so fond of autumn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20123080) **out, if that is your thing ♥


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